


Prologue

by eldritcher



Series: The Heralds of Dusk [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 06:43:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4009825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldritcher/pseuds/eldritcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Varda sees the signs. The ship bearing Galadriel approaches. Manwe wants her dead. Maglor waits for his cousin. Celebrian plans strategy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prologue

A wisp of breeze. A faint, lingering scent of incense. The footfalls were lighter than the hooves of a deer. Not anyone could have discerned the presence. But he could. He had spent long years in honing his senses. 

“Prince.” The Lady’s melodious voice reminded him of much. He suppressed his thoughts with effort and turned to incline his head politely to her.

“You have never walked on the seashore after coming to Tirion.” Her tone held a mixture of fear and accusation.

He did not reply. Instead, he cast his eyes out to the pale horizon. She stared at his proud, unbowed, austere figure in increasing worry. The deep black of his eyes shone in fiery passion, a passion held back only by the serene calm of his soul’s music. 

Then he turned to face her, his eyes meeting her gaze fearlessly. She tried to probe his thoughts, but was effectively spurned by the never lowered defences of his mind. 

A flock of gulls swooped northwards over them, the rustling of their wings breaking the silence on the seashore. Varda’s eyes widened as she realized what they were heralding. Her companion’s lips curled into a sardonic smile as he watched her. 

“Galadriel comes,” Varda whispered disbelievingly. “She is thrice a fool to do so! Does she not know what awaits her?”

Maglor raised a pitying eyebrow. 

“You cannot do anything to help her,” Varda said forcefully. “Her sins go too deep.”

An assault of memories avalanched her mind.

 

“I will do all that is in my power to save you from the eternal darkness, Prince Nelyafinwë.”

“It is too late, My Lady Varda. What is that you wished of me? If it is something that I can do, I will.”

Her features convulsed for the barest of moments before she spoke firmly, “The jewels must not return to Valinor. Claim them.”

“There is more than a mere desire to make amends. Speak the truth, Lady. I will die ere dawn, but I will not die a fool.”

“He loved the light. He craved the light,” she spoke in a whisper as memories haloed her. “I would do this for him. I would bring the light into the darkness beyond the Door of the Night.”

“If I claim the jewel and willingly embrace my death, thus carrying its light to the void where I shall be condemned to, then what shall you grant us?”

She met his eyes bravely, her form shining with the love that she bore for the fallen Vala condemned to the Void. She did not speak, but Maedhros frowned and nodded, his eyes widening in understanding.

“Thus be it,” he said quietly as he bent to press his lips to her hand.

 

A gust of wind swept through her tresses. Manwë was calling her. She met Maglor’s eyes. He turned away with a derisive shrug, his gaze once again fixed on the horizon. 

×××

 

“..Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…sixteen, SEVENTEEN, EIGHT-AAH!”

Erestor shook his head wryly as Thranduil’s shouted count dissolved into low moans.

“Insatiable, isn’t he?” Elrond chuckled as he joined his friend on the deck. “Apparently, Gildor thinks that counting can prolong the act. Knowing our prince, I think it is unlikely.”

Erestor rolled his eyes as Gildor’s shouts now joined Thranduil’s. Mithrandir and Thalion were laughing as they cast fond glances at the closed door from within which the sounds arose. Celeborn was trying to teach Glorfindel to cook a Sindarin delicacy. This seemed to be a sorry venture, Elrond decided, as the smell of burning fish reached his nostrils. Círdan was seated at a desk poring over his charts. Elrond could see the blood flushing the old mariner’s eartips as the noises continued without respite.

“I had hoped that you would have seasickness.” Erestor’s tone held a genuine note of wistfulness. 

“Whatever for?” Elrond asked incredulously as he stretched his limbs idly.

He watched the sparkle in Erestor’s eyes. After all these years, he knew that the mere sparkle of those black eyes was sufficient to make him fall in love all over again. 

“I wished to be confined with you in the chambers for a very long time,” Erestor spoke truthfully. “I almost wish that we had followed Laiqua’s example of wandering in the wilds, just you and I.”

The sheen of longing in the dark eyes made Elrond roughly smooth down the front of his tunic. Erestor raised an enquiring eyebrow.

“Let us retire.” Elrond restrained himself from dragging off his friend to the privacy of their chambers. 

“I have no objections at all. At your whim and wish entirely…” 

Erestor leant back against the railing of the deck and ran experienced eyes over Elrond’s form in possessive appraisal. Elrond fought down the desire to blush like someone barely-of-age. 

His voice had none of its usual polished veneer as he whispered, “Then what are we waiting for?” 

Erestor cleared his throat once. It delighted Elrond to know that he was not the only one who was bare inches from incoherence. Their gazes met and Erestor nodded silently. Together, they made their way to their chambers. In the harsh sunlight, Elrond could well see the faint flush of arousal adorning Erestor’s high cheekbones. He knew well what that portended and he looked forward to it. 

As he slid open their chamber doors and stepped back to let Erestor pass, a quiet voice broke the tense anticipation between them.

“My Lords, a moment of Lord Erestor’s time if I may.”

Whatever goodwill Elrond had towards Galadriel disappeared into oblivion. Erestor’s eyes met his own in a gesture of helplessness.

Elrond decided that he would not be polite; not when his desire had been so fully thwarted. He exhaled deeply and strode into his chambers, closing the door behind him with unwarranted force. 

“You have a talent in ruining the more perfect moments of our life,” Erestor said half-heartedly as he offered his hand to Galadriel.

“It affords me much pleasure to see him thus.” Galadriel softened her words with a smile of apology and linked her arm in her nephew’s. 

Erestor shook his head as he took in her weary, yet coldly beautiful features. The dark circles seemed to have made their permanent nests underneath her cool blue eyes. Her lips were pursed together in defiance as her gaze moved west.

“I wish your counsel,” she spoke quietly, her thoughts turning inward as they walked to the far side of the deck.

“I don’t really think that my counsel can serve you better than your own wisdom, Galadriel,” Erestor laughed self-deprecatingly. “Your plans have always been more efficient than mine.”

“My plans are heartless, so it is said.” Galadriel met his dark gaze solemnly. “I deal with causes and often wound hearts.”

“What is it?” He leant forward and said kindly, “You know that I have always been fair despite my prejudice.”

She sighed and took in his features; the dark, ebony mane, the black eyes that held equal measures of compassion and ruthlessness, the high cheekbones and the classically handsome profile that spoke of his legacy. 

“You loved my father.” It was more a statement than a question. She dared to meet his eyes after a long moment. There was only concern. No condemnation or bitterness. 

“You don’t hate me for never being supportive in the past?” she asked tentatively, wanting to do nothing more than to seek her husband and bury her face in his silver mane. But she willed herself to stand her ground bravely. She had always known the consequences of her actions. It was but right that she faced them.

“Círdan and Glorfindel were most kind,” he began carefully. “I had never lacked for anything. From my early days in Lindon, I knew that you must be watching over me. It was simple, really. You would have crushed me since you knew that I would be a serious impediment to your plans. But you did not. I assumed that you were merely trying to do the best by me, particularly when you tried to prevent the bonding between Ereinion and me.”

“Thank you,” she whispered brokenly, “though I don’t think that I deserve to be pardoned. Ereinion…”

“You did not kill him,” Erestor’s voice was urgent and imploring. His eyes shone in sorrow as he spoke earnestly, “We have both borne the guilt far too long. I believed that my love had never been sufficient to save him or to drag me with him. I was wrong. He had severed the bonds the night before…before his parting.”

She made to speak, but he continued hastily, “I know that you foresaw his death. By some instinct and mild speculation, I suspect that you had your reasons for not telling him. But you make a grievous mistake in blaming yourself, Galadriel. He knew the future. He broke our bonds because of that. It was his choice.”

“I did not tell him.” The self-hatred and bitter recrimination that echoed in her broken words struck Erestor to the core.

“I was war-weary and torn by grief when you asked me to follow my heart. I did so, and it has never caused me regret. You were right then. We did what we could. We had our flaws and failings. Blaming ourselves for what we are shall not help.” Erestor took her hand and pressed his lips to it chastely. “For my part, I have always understood your reasons though I do often fear your measures. But I understand.”

She did not reply. But her fingers gripped his hands tightly as she gazed west. 

“I have never thanked you enough for telling me about Elrond’s regard then. The guilt, the grief, the despair, you alleviated them all,” Erestor whispered sincerely. “I regret that it drove a wedge between Celeborn and you though.”

“I could never have done otherwise. I swore to your father that I would see you happy,” she replied. “Even if I had not sworn to do so, you are still your father’s son…and a part of me shall always love him.”

“As a part of me shall always be Ereinion’s,” Erestor spoke quietly. “We are but a sum of our past, Galadriel.”

“Are the two of you keen on talking your way through dinner?” Thranduil’s voice broke the silence that had fallen between them. “Come on, I need stimulating conversation. None of those cronies can give me that.”

“I believe that Gildor is open to many kinds of stimulation,” Erestor remarked tongue-in-cheek even as Galadriel nodded to him and moved away towards the brightly lit deck. 

Thranduil took his friend’s arm and remarked, “This is exactly the kind of conversation I craved for. Come, ‘Restor, let us drive them all mad with innuendo.”

“Neither Elrond nor I can stand that today!” Erestor protested good-humouredly. “We are yet to slake our lust.”

“What happened at sunset?” Thranduil laughed at the sullen expression on Elrond’s features as the latter joined them. “Am I to take it that nothing happened?”

“Galadriel happened,” Elrond spoke through clenched teeth as he swung open the door to the dining chamber. “For pity’s sake, don’t torment me with your witticisms tonight, Thranduil. I refuse to sit next to you.”

“Elrond,” Erestor began soothingly.

“She is a millstone about my neck!” Elrond complained querulously as he shot a malicious glare at Galadriel who was being fed oysters by a cooing Celeborn.

“My, Elrond!” Glorfindel chuckled as he pulled back a chair for Elrond between Mithrandir and himself and waved a welcome, “You seem to be in a foul mood.”

Círdan , who had been seated at the head of the table, threw a fond glance at Erestor and Thranduil as they continued their jocular conversation. His gaze softened as he watched the emerald green eyes of Thranduil lighten in mirth at one of Erestor’s comments. They still seemed to retain a measure of their youth, for which he was infinitely grateful. 

“They are a pair, aren’t they?” Celeborn chuckled as he took in Círdan ’s preoccupied gaze, “Makes the journey more interesting.”

“Do I take it to mean that I am not sufficiently interesting for the Silver Tree?” Galadriel raised an eyebrow as she reached for a goblet.

“You were never enough,” Elrond muttered uncharitably under his breath prompting a suspicious cough from Mithrandir.

Luckily, Celeborn was in one of his more romantic moods that night. He laughed and brought the goblet to her lips. 

Elrond resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He looked across at Erestor who was now moving his hands expressively as he debated something with an equally passionate Thranduil. Elrond moved his eyes away from the two creatures that never failed to stir his desire. Gildor and Thalion were smiling at Celeborn’s flight of romantic fancy.

“Is something wrong?” Celeborn asked worriedly.

Elrond glanced back at his nemesis. Galadriel was still, her eyes dangerously glassy as she stared at the goblet that Celeborn held to her lips.

“Nothing.” She managed to affect the barest trace of calm in her voice as her fingers came to clasp the goblet. “I believe that I shall refrain from the wine this night.”

Celeborn’s eyes narrowed and he began to make a remark.

“You shouldn’t, really,” Thranduil cut in swiftly. “I am personally of the opinion that wine works wonders on the libido.”

“Is that all you can think of?” Glorfindel grumbled as he threw a well-aimed cube of cheese at Thranduil.

“My repertoire is without bounds and my personal charms endless.” Thranduil took a bow and raised his goblet. “I believe that you had remarked something of the sort once, when I chanced to pay you a visit in the barracks of Lindon.”

Glorfindel took a rather hasty swig of his goblet before muttering, “I wonder how Oropher and Thalion survived raising you.”

Elrond smiled and leant back against the plush chair, looking over the scene from above his steepled fingers. Celeborn and Galadriel were now speaking softly. Thranduil had once again diverted a conflict at the dining table. Elrond watched languidly as Thranduil swatted off Gildor’s hand from his wrist. His eyes drifted of their own accord to Thranduil’s left. Erestor held his goblet in his hand even as he debated with Thranduil. As if sensing Elrond’s gaze, the dark eyes turned his way and a smile lit the aristocratic features, a smile that had always been reserved for Elrond alone.

“A very fine specimen of his house, is he not?” Mithrandir chuckled as he observed Elrond’s dreamy contemplation of his friend.

“A very, very fine specimen indeed.” Elrond inclined his head in assent as he raised his goblet in a silent toast.

Across him, a fine seep of crimson graced Erestor’s fine cheekbones and he dipped his head slightly in acceptance before raising his own goblet. The torchlight cast shadows on his features, sharpening and haloing the pallor of his complexion. Elrond watched him silently, letting himself be swallowed into the mists of imagination. 

That night as they lay together, Elrond threaded their fingers. He could feel Erestor trying restlessly to manipulate the bedcovers onto them with his feet. Elrond smiled lazily, some things never changed. After they had boarded the ship, Erestor had to embrace a regular sleep routine since Elrond pressed him to. Both Erestor and Thranduil often contrived to escape from their chambers after their bonded-mates had fallen asleep. They could be found talking to the shiphands at dawn still clad in their silken nightrobes.

“What did the witch want?” Elrond asked after a while.

“Must you call her that?” Erestor turned to face him as he spoke. Elrond knew instinctively that his companion was smiling. 

“She is the most coldhearted woman I have had the misfortune to come across, and the list already has people like my own unlamented mother and ‘Bría!” Elrond muttered as he brought their fingers to his lips.

Erestor made a noncommittal voice as he burrowed more comfortably against his companion. Elrond buried his vexation and instead pleasurably engaged himself in threading his fingers through the heavy dark hair of his friend. 

×××

 

“What was wrong?” he asked her quietly as they prepared for bed.

“Nothing, just a memory from the far past,” she said easily as she ran a comb through her long hair.

“It worries you, doesn’t it? You fear what we shall face at the end of the journey,” Celeborn whispered as he came to take the comb from her hand. Her grip loosened and he continued the task. 

She did not reply, but leant against him with a troubled sigh. “It was Mereth Aderthad. I was dancing with my cousins. Then I saw Maedhros offering the goblet to Fingon, a mere veil of politics over the darker truth of their relations. He was a better soul than I am.”

“If I had known, I would have hunted Fingon to his death!” Celeborn hissed as he glared at the pools of darkness within her eyes that he could never dispel in an eternity of love.

“So did Maglor once remark to me,” she whispered as she wend her arms about his waist. 

“He had cause enough. The damned villain dared touch two souls that were most beloved to Maglor,” Celeborn murmured through clenched teeth. 

“Maedhros had forgiven him. I could never bring myself to. Only the news of his death quenched my desire for revenge,” she confessed simply. “That I had wrought his death might have had something to do with it.”

He did not reply as he turned her around to face him. In the flickering torchlight, she was a living statue. He leant forward to press a kiss to her forehead.

“My Silver Tree…” she whispered, her voice hoarse.

“Somewhere along the path we trod together, I seem to have lost parts of myself to you. It did take me a long time to realize that. But now I do.” 

He kissed her pouring the depths of his intense emotion into that gesture. He had loved her. He had hated her. He had killed for her. Her mouth parted under his assault and his tongue was drawn into a battle with hers. He groaned as he dug his fingers into her hair and pulled her closer. 

×××

 

Thranduil stood on the moonlit deck, his unbound hair flying askew in the sea breeze. He could see the lights burning in Círdan ’s chamber. He would find companionship and conversation with the mariner if he cared to. But he turned away. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts. 

Galadriel’s fears were not lost upon him. Each day as they travelled further west, his heart burned in uncertainty. What would happen?

Elrond and Gildor were both determined to face whatever it was. Glorfindel had not confided his thoughts upon the matter to anyone. Celeborn would not care as long as he was not parted from Galadriel. Círdan feared. Mithrandir and Galadriel were weighed down with certainty. They seemed to know what exactly would happen. And it was not helping their courage.

Which left Thranduil and Erestor…Thranduil sighed. He feared for his friends. Search as he might, he did not find the tiniest fleck of optimism. He did not fear for himself. His maternal lineage would save him, he knew well. But would that be enough to save his friends?

Erestor’s calm pragmatism in the view of their imminent catastrophe did not sit well with Thranduil. He would have preferred that Erestor worried. Erestor had worried during the war in Eregion. They had survived it. Erestor had worried during the Last Alliance. They had survived it. But now, Thranduil brooded, his friend refused to worry. What did that portend?

“Would you be averse to company?” Erestor’s voice shook from his thoughts.

Thranduil smiled and said quietly, “If you are not averse to my brooding.”

“Whatever would you brood about? Gildor does not snore, I hope?” There was distinct mirth shining in Erestor’s dark eyes.

“Not more than Elrond does,” Thranduil rejoined irritably. “Do you not fear of what shall happen? Even Galadriel fears. Are you really so brave?”

“What is bravery? A mere pretence to mask fear.” Erestor’s voice took on a shade of moroseness. “I fear, Thranduil. But fear will not help our cause.”

“Then what shall?” Thranduil asked crossly, rubbing his temples in weariness.

“Hope. You and I know the true worth of hope.”

×××

 

“Grandfather!” Celebrían rushed through the wide corridors of Finarfin’s palace. “GRANDFATHER!”

“’Bría?” Finarfin stepped out of his chambers and watched her in mild apprehension. “What is it?”

She stood before him, her fair features blanched and frightened. He did not need to ask more, or to hear the words she spoke quietly. 

“My mother comes.”

×××


End file.
